Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 104766 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104766 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
“He did you a favor.”
Actually, he humiliated me.
Humiliated, Ryann? That’s a bit dramatic, even for you—especially for you.
If there’s one thing my mother taught me, it’s that no one can make me feel shitty without my consent.
Not in those exact words, but you get the point.
“Do we both agree that I shouldn’t contact him?”
Dallas glances over at me, a flash of light from an oncoming car creating a slash across his face.
“I wouldn’t. I’d let it go.”
I laugh. “You know how hard that is for me to do, right?” I pick at the sleeve of my puffy coat, needing something to occupy my hands. “Not that I want to beg him to keep dating me, because I don’t. I just like closure. This was so random.”
“Was it?”
I give him a hard side glance. “What’s that supposed to mean?” In that tone?
“All I’m saying is, it doesn’t sound like y’all were hot and heavy. It sounds like y’all were lukewarm at best.”
Y’all…
He’s not wrong.
Not in the least.
Still, it’s aggravating.
I open and close my mouth like a guppy, not sure how to refute the claim that Diego and I were no better than tepid water.
Which sounds so…boring.
Because it was.
The fact that I’m arguing has me baffled when, in reality, I was thinking of breaking up with Diego myself.
So annoying!
“Turn here. I’m the apartment right there. Just pull up to the curb. Don’t bother pulling into the driveway.” I’m the unit on the bottom floor—which I hate—patio doors facing the road. Luckily, I’ve never had any scares being at ground level; no one has ever tried to break in, but that doesn’t mean it’s the safest spot to be in.
I’ve been on the waiting list for a second-story apartment since I signed my lease.
“Which one are you?” Dallas is eyeballing the yard, the street ahead, and the neighborhood in general.
“None of your business.” As if I’d give some random guy a road map to where I live. He’s taken me far enough; he needn’t go any farther.
Unbuckling my seat belt, I give him a forced smile. “Thanks for the lift.”
Dick.
“No problem.” If he had a cowboy hat, I imagine he’d tip it toward me in some forced gesture of Southern humility.
I hop out of the truck, phone already in the palm of my hand.
Dallas Colter continues watching me from the curb, and I stop in the middle of the lawn, pivoting on my heels so I can stare him down.
“Go.” I shoo him away, irritated.
A few more seconds, then finally he’s pulling away. I watch as his taillights disappear down the street.
“Well. This was a fucked-up night.”
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“The Friday When We Met.”
FIRST FRIDAY
SCARLETT
“No offense, Scarlett, but if you didn’t feel good when I invited you to come with us tonight, you should have said something. Now I feel terrible.”
Tessa—a girl I lived next door to in the dorms freshman and sophomore year and remained friends with—flips her perfectly coifed hair, eyeing up my soft sweater, the one I always wear when I’m getting over a cold, or sick, because it’s cozy, oversized, and comforting. It’s more appropriate for a bonfire or night at home than a college party, and when Tessa shoots me that sympathetic face—lips turned down at the corners, eying me skeptically—I manage a soft laugh.
“Trust me, I’ve been home for the past few weekends—I needed this night out.”
Two to be exact, couch surfing and binging on random TV shows, consuming copious amounts of hot tea and chicken noodle soup.
“Are you sure? Because if you’re not…”
“I’m fine—that’s why I wore this sweater. It’s going to keep me toasty warm tonight so I don’t catch a chill.”
The last thing I want is her changing her plans because of me.
“But that sweater…” Tessa worries her bottom lip, chewing off some of the lipstick. “It gets so warm inside those parties…maybe just take the scarf off? And the jacket?”
Fingering the gray, cable knit length around my neck, I breathe in the merino wool that’s the only thing keeping my neck warm and my cough from coming back.
“My scarf? What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing’s wrong with it, but we’re going to the baseball house—you know, on Jock Row.”
When she says Jock Row, her voice changes, fills with this weird wistfulness and a playful giddiness, like we’re heading to some magical place. We’re not.
Jock Row: the off-campus housing block where student athletes live and party. Similar to Greek Row, each sport has its own designated apartment or house, spanning an entire city block. They study together, play together, live together. Hell, they even eat together in a special cafeteria I’ve only heard whispers about, with super special, healthy jock food.